ritual
by breezysmooth
Summary: They don't need each other anymore. Puck-centric.


Quinn would _murder_, like crave for his blood if she found out.

But she won't , not ever, so he smirks to himself as he traces little swirls on her blanky. It's a soft peach, because he hates pink and yellow looks a little bit caustic, and it has a hint of raspberries wafting under his nose.

It smells exactly like Beth.

Which makes sense, because Puck's daughter (he cringes here, because Jesus Christ, his _daughter_) is currently blowing bubbles with her saliva and kicking her chubby legs in the air, her blue-green eyes staring at him expectantly from her cot. He wishes he could pull a card out of his ass or something to please her, but then realises why.

He hums, a soft sound from the back of his throat, and his arms feel the couch next to him, because there's no way in hell he's going to get his eyes off of her.

She smiles a little bit when he brings out the guitar and plucks at the string, and it's so frightening because it's nothing like he's ever felt before. Each smile, each giggle makes him feel like he's injected with helium, floating in the air. If this was fatherhood, Puck never will understand why his father left the post.

Either way he starts to sing her lullaby, his voice especially soft for her.

Her eyes flutter and shut, but she wails unevenly when he stops, so he sings until his throat is sore, and even then he needs Shelby's gentle nudge on his shoulder to end.

* * *

Puck likes to think he's changed.

More mature, more sensitive, more smart even. Because the whole baby shit, whether he liked it or not, had changed him. It taught him that not wearing condoms sucks, and that miracles can spring from even the stupidest accidents a person makes. That's another thing, he prefers to call it an _accident,_ not a mistake. A product of serious UST, and her self-consciousness maybe, but not really a mistake.

And he also tries to forget the nights where she lashes at him, eyes too dark to be brown, and her words a shade of fury that'll haunt him forever: _"This was a mistake, Noah Puckerman. __**Your**__ mistake. Nothing will come out of us. You know this."_ But the guilt choking his lungs will force him to nod and he'll ignore the urge to wrap him in his arms, because he's no fucking knight. He never will be, at least to her.

But he can be one to his Beth.

He swears to her quietly that no sticks, stones or any hormonal boys will ever hurt her, not if he can do anything about it. His daughter, his complete angel, will scowl at him and turn over to sleep, and he'll usually smile.

Shelby looks at him sometimes, with resignation and the what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you type of smile that he always sees on his mom's face, and yet she accepts it.

There's a sudden weight pulled off his chest, because at least someone understands.

* * *

She's with the new dude.

He dropped by one afternoon to the choir room to ask Mr. Schue about vocal practice and sees them practically glued to each other. His blood boils because – no offence to Kurt- Jason Mraz is **gay**_,_ don't these people see that?

(Their eyes are clinging to each other and she has a slow, stunning smile on her lips and their noses are dipping in for a-) He turns away so fast, the whiplash is literally painful.

His heart thuds hollowly to the floor because whether he likes it or not, they look fucking _perfect_ for each other.

* * *

Shelby calls him in the middle of rehearsals and says Beth has a running fever, her nanny's away and she's at Carmel so _could you please come over?_

He doesn't have to think twice. (He's getting a little sick of watching Barbie and Ken.)

"Look dude," He puts a hand on Finn's shoulder, determination steeling his voice. "Beth has the bug, so can you tell Coach I won't be there for practice?" Finn's confused, but he nods slowly.

He practically runs out of the door, and leaves a confused glee club in his wake.

* * *

_Hail Mary, Mother of God, forgive this sinner, please make Beth better, Amen._

He knows that wasn't a conventional Jewish prayer, but the burning against his palm and the sweat collecting on his forehead tells him he doesn't care. He'll resort to sacrificing three bulls and his next girlfriend if that makes Beth better. He swears and jogs to the microwave, checking if her milk is done and he dials Shelby up, wondering where the hell she keeps the antibiotics.

Shelby tells him that it's on the cupboard, right around the time he finds it. He curses again and hangs up, striding to Beth's room. Everything yellow and plushy and for the moment, is glaringly bright, but everything falls into a haze as he focuses on the baby. She's not screeching her lungs out, which worries and relieves him. Aren't babies supposed to scream for everything?

He feeds her the medicine and helplessly watches as her little forehead scorches red in misery. He even put the little blue-patch on her forehead, but nothing's working yet.

(He patiently bears the next five minutes.)

Screw it. Nothing's _working_.

He swallows his scowl and he stares at the room intently, hoping for a Hail Mary pass. He snorts to himself, but perks when he sees the object sprawled against the door.

Of course.

He picks it up and strums it casually, getting ready for a tune. And then when he dives into _That's All Right, _he thinks he's the best genius ever.

But even as his Beth's fever cools and the yellow walls around him soften to butter, the prayer still rings in his mind, but with more hope.

_Hail Mary, Mother of God, forgive this sinner, please make Beth better, Amen._

_

* * *

_

"You asshole."

Her hiss is quiet, betrayed, and he swings around nonchalantly. What did he do now?

"Why?" She says, with her eyes red like pure hell and her nose blotched up.

"You look like shit." He says conversationally, delving his locker for his Calculus book. He's developed a nervous habit of not looking into her eyes, because the sheer intensity scares him sometimes. "Why what?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Okay, not sometimes. _All_ the time.

"Lemme guess: Finn told you." The next time he sees that jock, he's going to teach him the meaning of discretion_._

"Yes." He hates this, hates the fact that every time they talk now he gets the feeling he's hanging on the precipice of a cliff, and one slip might kill him.

"You promised." Her words crack, and she looks to the ground. His anger flares, and he slams the locker shut. She nearly winces.

"No, I never promised that. _You_ did. To yourself. Not to me. I promised to be a good father to her, no matter what."

"How dare you say that-"

"I have every right. Beth is _mine_." Uttering her name out loud, in front of her jolts both of them, and they stare at each other, confused. But he soldiers on. "I didn't choose to-"

"You complete that sentence, Noah Puckerman, and I swear..." She doesn't bother to complete the sentence, and the look that she pierces him with is pure hatred.

Something inside him snaps. "What?" He sneers loudly. "Hit me? Because I recall some days when you-"

"Shut the _fuck_ up." He turned dumb, staring at her. As far as he knew, Quinn never, never swore. Even when she was giving birth the farthest she went was '_suck'_.

"Fine." He states coldly, after a moment of silence. _Fine. Be that way. Go suck it up to your Bieber wannabe and I'll be right here, trying to be a-_

"How is she?" She asks suddenly, a wordless pain underneath her voice. The guilt stabs him for the thousandth time because she's her mother too, she doesn't deserve any of this-

No. No. He isn't going to give in. Not this time.

"Fine." He says tightly, his eyes sleet. He feels like an idiot, so: "She had a fever yesterday." Her head shoots up, eyes bewildered. "She's fine," he reassures her. "Completely fine. She loves Presley. Just like her mom."

Her lips curl slightly, not as big as the smile he saw at the- he isn't thinking about that anymore. Honest. But the reminder hardens his gaze, and he swivels around to leave.

"Puck!" She calls his name, and he wants to nearly groan in relief, it had been forever since her lilt found his name. But he swallows his pleasure and turns around, neutral.

Her eyes are huge, vulnerable, and if he stares at them some more he knows he'll give in. "Thank you." She whispers, and he nods.

He senses the questioning in her eyes, and a glimmer of hope and –dare he say it- forgiveness, but he shakes it away. A couple of months ago, he would've been thrilled. Sang a bunch of solos for her, even. But not now. Never now.

"A long time ago," he says quietly, "that would have been enough. Now-" He shakes his head and walks away, like he should.

(Because she's got _him_ and he's got Beth. They both were broken, but they found others to mend the pieces. And now, they don't need each other anymore.)

_fin._

**_A/N: _**I don't think Jason Mraz is gay. In fact, his songs inspired this fic. Selah.


End file.
